


Alliance and Progress

by Oilan



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Cougourde d'Aix, Gen, Home, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 17:41:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7183715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oilan/pseuds/Oilan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following a spate of good luck, Enjolras and Courfeyrac travel south together to cement new allies, and reflect on how far they have come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alliance and Progress

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AMarguerite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AMarguerite/gifts).



> Hope you enjoy this fic! I did my best to combine your two prompts.

June 1828.

Their somewhat rickety diligence to Aix-en-Provence bounced along the road, driven at a lively pace that was somehow still entirely too slow. The silence inside of it allowed Courfeyrac time to reflect—not that he _wanted_ to be bored enough to reflect—on the events of the last few weeks. It had been a whirlwind of fortuitous events, to say the least. The little group Bahorel had been courting for a while had finally agreed to meet with them. This meeting, taking place in an abandoned quarry on Issy plain, had been a resounding success; the two groups had gotten along swimmingly, and the leader of the other had agreed to put them in contact with their main group in the Midi: the Cougourde. Enjolras, newly elected as chief of their own, still nameless group, had swiftly established a correspondence, and had decided to accept the Cougourde’s offer to travel south to meet in person and, with any luck, to form an alliance with them. The arrangements were all made, and here they were, armed with the names of both the leader of the Cougourde in Paris and his counterpart in Aix, as proof of their own identities, as well as a time and place to meet.

This whole affair had come upon their new little society so swiftly and suddenly that Courfeyrac was left reeling from it all. He could only sit back and thank Providence for allowing him to accompany his friend. His family, who had resided in Aix for as long as he could remember, was also traveling at the moment, enjoying a holiday in Switzerland. This meant that their home was empty and he could offer Enjolras a comfortable place to stay—and that he himself would not be left out of this adventure.

He was so excited about the entire thing that he could hardly sit still, which was unfortunate, as they were only half an hour outside of Paris, and had many days on the road ahead of them. None of his usual traveling pastimes appealed to him at the moment, for any enjoyment he could possibly get from them paled in comparison to seeing the progress their group had made. He wanted to shout, he wanted to jump up and down in joy, to embrace all his friends in celebration. He could do none of these things at present and to make matters worse, Enjolras, their deserving leader, orchestrator of these grand events, the person who saw their goals most clearly and who really should have been the most gleeful at their achievements was quietly reading in the seat across from him, the picture of serenity.

In all fairness, Courfeyrac could not remember ever seeing Enjolras being openly gleeful about anything, but they had been friends for little more than a year. There was still time.

It would have been more polite, certainly, to let Enjolras read in peace, but as the minutes ticked by, this became increasingly impossible.

“This is the _most excited_ I have ever been,” Courfeyrac announced at last, unable to contain himself any longer. Across from him, Enjolras glanced up from his book to smile but said nothing.

“I mean to say, things are finally beginning for us—and who knows where our plans may take us? Aren’t you just thrilled?”

“Of course,” said Enjolras, though he did not look up again. Courfeyrac sighed.

Despite their great difference in temperament, and Enjolras’ reserved nature, he and Courfeyrac had gotten along very well, very quickly from the start. Courfeyrac could always get a smile out of him, no matter how discouraging the situation or how terrible the joke, but he had not yet gotten him to voice his excitement about the progress they were making. One victory always led right into work towards the next goal, without taking a moment to enjoy what had been accomplished.

This little trip would be different, Courfeyrac resolved. They had something now—something about which to be really, exceedingly enthusiastic. And with this thought settled satisfyingly in his mind Courfeyrac sat back and prepared for the journey ahead.

 

* * *

 

Traveling always seemed to take a lifetime, no matter how well stocked with books and other pastimes one was, and so it was with great relief that Courfeyrac finally spotted the outlines of the buildings at the edge of Aix in the darkness. It was well past midnight after who knows how many days of travel, and he shook Enjolras awake the very moment the carriage slowed to a halt at its destination, eager to stretch his legs.

“We’re here. Come on, Enjolras. We have a bit of a walk but we’ll be at my family’s place in no time. Do we have all our luggage? We need to walk east for a bit—this way.”

The de Courfeyrac homestead was a large, stately house about twenty minutes on foot from the city center, with a charming little field behind it and a crop of fruit trees to the side. It had been built for Courfeyrac’s great grandparents, but it was not until Courfeyrac and his five older siblings, most of whom now had their own large families, that the house’s spaciousness was put to any practical use. Though presently empty, with the family members who still lived there away on their holiday, Courfeyrac’s heart still swelled at the sight of it. He had not anticipated feeling so strongly at being home again.

Something else he had not anticipated was, with even the servants gone at the moment, they had no way of getting inside.

“Oh,” he said, after trying the main door and finding it, of course, locked.

“Is there not another way in?” asked Enjolras wearily, speaking for the first time since they had arrived, and in a tone that suggested he was merely sleepy, rather than annoyed at their circumstances.

“One moment.” Courfeyrac strode a few paces to the side, craning his neck, counting the windows on the first story. “Ah, yes! Over here. I’ll need a boost up.” After catching Enjolras’ dubious look, Courfeyrac added: “My sister Alphonsine’s window lock has been broken ever since Matilde and Juliane crashed into it while playing at jousting. Since she could never lock it, we always used to stand on each other’s shoulders and set frogs loose in her room, poor girl.” Enjolras stared at him blearily. “Euh—it’s a long story.”

Enjolras shook his head disbelievingly, but held out his hands for Courfeyrac to set his foot upon, and managed to boost him high enough to grasp the window ledge and scramble upward. The window swung open easily to allow Courfeyrac entry, and after clambering into the room he ran downstairs to let Enjolras inside.

“Thank God for childhood pranks, eh?” Courfeyrac said, smiling as he opened the door.

Enjolras merely shook his head again, bringing their bags inside and looking around mildly at the foyer. “I wouldn’t know. I did not have such a lively childhood.”

“This way; we have quite a comfortable room for visitors,” Courfeyrac said, taking hold of their luggage and motioning for Enjolras to follow him back up the stairs. He paused and, unable to contain his curiosity, asked: “Surely you _must_ have gotten into some sort of trouble, even as an only child?”

“Hmm.” Enjolras thought for a moment. “I once spilled chocolate over myself and my best set of evening clothes immediately before a dinner party. My mother was very displeased with me.”

Charmed by the image, Courfeyrac asked, “How old were you?”

“Four or so.”

“And your mother let you have chocolate before dinner!”

Enjolras smiled, and ducked his head slightly. “It was a reward for getting into the clothes in the first place.”

“How spoiled you were!” Courfeyrac refrained from laughing outright, as Enjolras still appeared to be harboring some small amount of guilt over the incident, but grinned wider. “Well, that’s not so bad! Things like that happened every other day when we were children. Still, I confess I’m a bit concerned. How am I supposed to believe you can lead us properly when I’ve just learned that you weren’t even a terror as a child, _and_ that you can be _bribed_ with chocolate?”

“You may revoke my leadership duties if you see fit.”

Courfeyrac did laugh at that, and pressed Enjolras’ shoulder before halting in front of the guest room and opening the door for his friend. “I wouldn’t dream of it! How am I to manage here all alone? Here we are, then. My room is the last one down the hall; wake me if you need anything. Do we have everything for tomorrow? I’m not certain what we should be expecting.” A clench of giddy excitement stirred in his chest at the mere thought of their meeting.

“We have all the information,” Enjolras replied, setting his traveling bag just inside the bedroom. “The meeting is at half past eight in the evening; I have the letter with the address.”

“Well, then the only other thing we need is our convictions and _considerable_ charm to convince them to befriend us,” said Courfeyrac, waving Enjolras into his room for a much needed night’s sleep. “And _those_ we have in spades.”

 

* * *

 

The following evening, after a day of rest, Courfeyrac and Enjolras made their way to the very heart of the city. Shopkeepers were closing up here and there, the streetlamps were being lit, and families and friends were gathering in their homes to dine together. It did not take the pair long to find the address they were looking for: a little house with a tidy, though slightly dried, flowerbed in front and ivy grown up one side. The problem seemed to be that no one was home; every window was dark and the house was silent.

Courfeyrac checked his watch. “The letter said half-eight, didn’t it?”

“Yes.” Enjolras was frowning, leaning forward as though listening for something. “Do you hear that?”

Courfeyrac tilted his head. If he really strained, he could hear the faint whisper of voices, though from the sound of it, they were not coming from the house proper.

“This way,” said Enjolras, walking forward, still listening hard, and leading the way around the back of the house. Here, tall hedges obscured a small plot of land. The voices seemed to be emanating from behind them and, curiously, from lower down.

After walking around the periphery of the bushes, they soon found a little spot where the hedges overlapped and, after exchanging a resolute glance, squeezed their way through the leaves. Finding themselves on the other side, Courfeyrac barely had time to mourn at the smear of sap on his coat before Enjolras beckoned him forward. Now they were able to see the back of the house, and realized that the voices, less muffled now, were coming from behind a door at the bottom of steps that looked as though they should have led to the house’s cellar.

“This is the right place,” said Enjolras, and he led the way down the steps to listen at the door for a moment before rapping on it sharply.

“They _are_ expecting us _today_ , aren’t they?” Courfeyrac asked, shifting a bit as a twist of excitement rose up in him again.

“This is the date we decided upon.”

Enjolras did not have time to say anything more, for the instant his knock was heard from inside, the voices ceased, and someone cracked open the door just wide enough to peer at them with one eye. The effect was rather sinister, as there was no light inside of the room, and the man looking at them did not say a word. Courfeyrac would have liked to take a step backward, but stood where he was.

“Messieurs Enjolras and Courfeyrac,” said Enjolras, quite unperturbed. “We had an agreement to meet Monsieur Frédéric Langlois at this date and time. We had been corresponding, as mutual friends of Monsieur Reyer, chief of the Cougourde in Paris.”

The man looking at them, no doubt the Monsieur Langlois in question, opened the door wider, and the feeling of foreboding dissipated immediately. He was a slightly stout, round-faced man, perhaps thirty years of age, with merry crinkles around his eyes. Behind him, his group of men were quickly relighting the candles and lamps which had evidently been extinguished upon Enjolras’ knock.

“Ah, of course—you’ve found the right place,” said Langlois, gesturing for them to come into the room, and locking the door behind them. “I trust your journey went well? Good. I do appreciate your willingness to travel all this way, but we cannot be too careful when cementing new contacts. Let me introduce you to everyone, and then we can get down to business, I think…”

He went around the table, making introductions. The group was not large, though they did outnumber Enjolras and Courfeyrac’s at the moment, and the men seemed quite easy with each other although, according to Enjolras’ correspondence, they had not been meeting for very much longer than their own had. Courfeyrac shook everyone’s hand jovially enough, and received cheerfulness back for the most part, though many of the men had an air of wariness, or even skepticism, about them.

“Would you like a glass of wine, Messieurs?” Langlois added, as he directed Enjolras and Courfeyrac to chairs at the end of the long table at which everyone else was seated.

“Yes, thank you,” Courfeyrac said, before Enjolras could decline the offer. Enjolras shot him a quick look of disapproval, but Courfeyrac ignored it. It would be unseemly to decline a gesture of hospitality from a group they were looking to befriend, even if Enjolras did not end up drinking more than a few sips.

“There you are.” Langlois set down full glasses in front of them. His kindly demeanor remained, but as Courfeyrac examined him from behind his own genteel expression, he could sense something else beneath it. Langlois’ eyes flickered over Enjolras, over to Courfeyrac for a moment, and then back, taking in how they stood, how they looked and spoke. He was appraising them. “Now. Monsieur Enjolras, I must compliment you on your writing; one would think you’ve been involved with your group for much longer than you have been. I wonder: Have you started using this skill to write for others? A newspaper or articles or something of the sort?”

“Yes, a little. We have no newspaper, but have drawn up a few short pamphlets for distribution. Each of our members brings a different voice into the fold—it helps us reach the widest variety of people.”

“And have you a decent printer yet?”

“We do; Courfeyrac is the one who found them.” Enjolras inclined his head toward his friend.

“Indeed,” Courfeyrac added. “A brother and sister. They run a little shop not far from one of our meeting places. It is a little unremarkable place at first glance, but they’ve been discreetly printing for groups like ours for years. I was very lucky in finding them.”

“I’d have to agree with you,” said Langlois, a bit more sincere in his smile now. “A good printer is not necessarily an easy find—and perhaps that luck will benefit us as well, in our first act as friends.” He gathered together a short stack of pamphlets and handed them to Enjolras. “Take these, if you please. Print and distribute them in Paris. Our counterparts there are undoubtedly already writing for the people, but like you, we seek to reach the widest variety of readers. Have you brought some of your own pieces? We’ll spread them around here—and of course we would all be interested to read them.” He raised his eyebrows. “You know, to see how a Parisian thinks compared to us here in the Midi.”

“Actually, we are both from the region as well,” said Enjolras. “Courfeyrac is from this city, in fact.”

“Are you?” Langlois looked around at the rest of his men, all of whom appeared to be set more at ease. “Then you know how things are done around here. Ah, thank you,” he added, as Enjolras passed him a small packet of their papers.

“I feel I must ask,” said Enjolras, his gaze lingering on the articles for a moment. “Is this—the exchange of pamphlets—the primary activity with which your society concerns itself?”

“The exchange of pamphlets and the exchange of ideas,” Langlois replied wryly, not taken aback in the least by Enjolras’ blunt question.

“The exchange of weapons? Or other necessary materials?”

“'Necessary'! You are eager, aren’t you?”

“Will it not become necessary for both of us? The exchange of ideas is a noble endeavor; I do not deny this. Our fellow, Combeferre, holds it to the highest regard and would see it bring about the changes we seek, but history and practicality dictate otherwise.”

“Indeed.” Langlois’ brows were still raised, waiting for Enjolras to continue. Courfeyrac looked at his friend as well, and upon seeing Enjolras’ grave expression, a thrill passed through him—half exhilaration and half fear. Enjolras’ gaze was, as always, unwavering.

“We have not yet had the opportunity to establish reliable sources for weaponry and supplies, but are in the midst of doing so. It is one of topics I had wished to discuss. We will inevitably need supplies in Paris, and you will inevitably need supplies here.”

“And you would like to come to an agreement?” All joviality, calculated or otherwise, had fled from Langlois’ attitude, but a solemn sort of respect had taken its place. “You are not wrong about our need for weapons; it will be wise to outfit ourselves as best as possible. Very well—let us discuss it.”

The conversation regarding this exchange did not last long, as everyone was already in agreement. There were particular supplies that were easier to find in certain places, and would need to be obtained swiftly if rebellion was to break out in one location but not the other.

Though he contributed as much as he possibly could to this discussion, Courfeyrac could not shake that odd feeling of mingled anticipation and trepidation. The sensation had settled into the pit of his stomach, and he could barely sit still at the thought of their plans, all their talk, becoming a reality. He almost felt he was looking at himself from the point of view of someone else. Here he was, after so many years of passionate conviction, and only a few months of real action, sitting and actively plotting out the logistics of their future insurrection as easily as if he was sitting in a café with his friends, planning a night at the theater or a ball. The thought alone was enough to make him dizzy with elation.

The discussion seemed to be over in a blink of an eye, however. Enjolras shifted in his seat. As the political conversation was over, it was perfectly obvious that he wished to leave, but Courfeyrac nudged him with an elbow.

“Practicality dictates that running out on our new friends would be the highest level of rudeness,” Courfeyrac whispered to Enjolras, as Langlois refilled their wineglasses. “We should avoid that, even if things have gone _exceedingly_ well tonight,” he added, grinning. Enjolras frowned slightly, and took a sip of wine, but heeded Courfeyrac’s advice.

Courfeyrac sat back in his chair, taking up the conversation at the table with ease, talking of this-or-that play, friendly anecdotes, and the worst jokes he could think up. Enjolras contributed a comment here and there, or smiled at a pun, but was mostly silent, listening to the merry chatter surrounding him. It was almost possible to forget they were with people they had only just met, not in Paris with their friends, and it was with immense satisfaction when at last, a few hours later, the conversation died away as everyone tired themselves out from talking, and they stood to take their leave at the end of the evening.

Monsieur Langlois gave a little half bow as he held the door open for them, his smile genuine now. “I am quite confident that this marks the beginning of many good, and many _productive_ , years of friendship ahead of us.”

 

* * *

 

“A job well done, I should say,” said Courfeyrac, for what was quite possibly the hundredth time in the week following their meeting. Enjolras, as always, nodded but did not answer. Courfeyrac slipped an arm through his and continued walking.

They would be leaving the next day, and were presently enjoying one last, leisurely stroll through the fields around Aix before heading back into the crowds and bustle of Paris. It was an odd sensation, Courfeyrac thought as he looked out onto the green countryside before him and the blue sky above, to be split between two beloved places. Enjolras, almost as though he sensed something of what Courfeyrac was feeling, cast him a gentle sidelong look, before stopping and sitting in the grass, reaching out a hand to invite Courfeyrac to join him. Courfeyrac smiled and flopped down next to him, stretching out onto his back.

Enjolras gazed at him a moment longer, almost as if to ensure Courfeyrac was comfortable, before raising his eyes to the horizon and saying: “Will you miss being here? After we are in Paris again?”

“I- Well, yes; I will.” Courfeyrac nestled into the grass, settling into the warm feeling that rose inside him at being asked this question. “It’s strange. I’ve always lived here; my family has always lived here, and royalists or not, I do always end up missing them--being teased by my sisters and chasing after their children and taking them on walks in the sunshine. But somehow, whenever I’m here, I always end up missing Paris even more. How is that?” He raised himself up on an elbow and found Enjolras looking down at him again, head tilted just slightly. “You must know what I mean. Don’t you ever miss home?”

“Le Puy?” Enjolras replied. “Well, of course. The only family I have now is my grand-aunt, but yes, I know what you mean.”

“And Paris?”

“I miss Paris more, too.” He broke Courfeyrac’s gaze and looked down at the grass instead. “It is our home as much as where we were born—where our families come from. It’s the home we’ve made for ourselves.” He looked back at Courfeyrac, his smile small but no less warm for it. “And as important as it is to make allies elsewhere, it is the place where the changes we seek shall be made.”

“The birthplace of our future Republic.” Courfeyrac grinned up at him. “Yes, I think so too.”

Enjolras lay next to his friend in the grass and rolled onto his back, gazing up at the white clouds above them. “Things are finally beginning for us,” he said, and then looked over at Courfeyrac with the barest hint of archness. “This is the most excited I’ve ever been.”


End file.
